


Meeting the Master of Death

by icecoldfairy



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Supernatural
Genre: Family, Friendship, Gen, Master of Death Harry, supernatural universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 12:53:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1267276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icecoldfairy/pseuds/icecoldfairy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean stumble across the Master of Death, and find that he's not quite what they expected. Now a series of one-shots/drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting

"Are you seriously going through with this?" Dean demanded of his younger brother. They were standing in front of a painted circle, tendrils of scented smoke spiralling into the air from strategically placed incense. "Of course! If anyone can help us, it's the Master of Death, right?" he asked, turning towards the other man, who was sceptically eyeing him from across the room. "Oh come on Dean! You've seen for yourself how powerful Death is! So imagine how much more power his master will have! If we can just convince him to help us out, we'll have the upper hand for sure." "Yes, I remember how powerful Death is. I also remember how much he didn't like being summoned and chained by us! We were like ants to him, so imagine how bad it'll be once you summon his damn master! We may as well just go and kill ourselves now if you summon him here!" Dean snapped back. He wasn't looking forward to his brother idiotically going through with a damn stupid plan to summon the goddamn Master of Death.

Sam studiously ignored his brother, and began chanting the ritual in Latin, also ignoring the thrum of worry he felt when the lights and candles flicked ominously as he came to the end. Clenching and unclenching his fists, he saw Dean shifting nervously as he drew the demon-killing knife and prepared himself for combat. They both started when they glimpsed the figure that had appeared in the ritual circle.

He was rather small, over a head shorter than Dean, with tousled black hair, glasses and bright, piercing green eyes. He was also very young compared to what they were expecting. Considering Death appeared as an older and definitely creepier looking man, they were startled to see that his master was in his early twenties at most, and was almost adorable compared to the imposing figure that Death presented.

"Can I help you?" he asked, clearly bored if his expression and tone of voice were anything to go by. "I swear, if you're another couple of idiot demons trying to control my power, I'm leaving."

The Winchesters glanced quickly at each other, and then back at the small figure in front of them.  
"Uh…we were kinda hoping you could help us out a little problem?" Sam asked uncertainly.

"You know, I do have a life you know! I'm sick of people summoning me for stupid reasons! It had better be important, because I was enjoying my first day off in months before you forced me here." The mysterious man exclaimed, heavily scowling at the two of them.

"You're British!" Dean blurted, drawing strange looks from both his brother and the Master of Death. He flushed, and lowered his head to stare at his feet. "I mean," he continued, "are you actually British, or is that a vessel?" Bewildered, Sam stared at his brother. What the heck? Who cared if the guy was British? Crowley was British and Dean had never made a big deal out of it before.

Laughing, the Master of Death introduced himself as Harry and confirmed that yes, he was British, and no, he wasn't possessing anybody. The tension easily seeped out of the air once the Winchesters saw that Harry could do something as human as laugh. It was a warm, calming sound full of genuine amusement, not sinister or eerie as they were used to from supernatural creatures.

Smiling to themselves, the Winchesters allowed themselves to relax as they conversed with Harry, the Master of Death, none of them aware that this was the beginning of a long and close friendship.


	2. Regret

Sam rued the day he let Harry into the batcave. It seemed that Harry had taken it as an open invitation to drop in anytime, and that's exactly what he did.  
It had been a huge shock the first time he dragged himself out of bed only to find his brother – who  _never_  woke up before Sam – wide awake and chasing someone ( _something?)_  around the library. So when Sam bodily threw himself across the room, tackling (and in the process squashing) the younger man, naturally his excuse was that in their line of work you could never be too careful. Imagine his surprise when he actually took the time to look down at the man he was currently sitting on, only to find that it was not, in fact, a demon or monster or anything nearly as horrible. It was one very disgruntled looking Master of Death.

Of course, Dean found the whole situation hilarious and took it upon himself to bring the incident up every single time the two were in the same room together. Needless to say, Harry Potter was not Sam's favourite person at the time being.  
During the time it took for Sam to get used to Harry popping in all the time – which should not have taken nearly as long as it did considering a certain angel friend of theirs that had been doing the same thing for years – the brothers had hunted two witches, a particularly nasty shapeshifter and an entire nest of vampires (it was a busy month).

However, the worst thing by far that Harry had caused with his numerous seemingly random visits was Dean's newfound addiction to treacle tart. After discovering his brother's rather unhealthy obsession with pie, Harry had been determined to convert him. That was also the day that Harry had started cooking for them. Apparently it wasn't healthy to live exclusively off food that could be prepared in less than 5 minutes, and had approximately the same fat content as a killer whale, something that Sam wholeheartedly agreed with. Although Harry  _did_  swear by Dean's burgers and even Sam had to admit they were  _good_. Who knew all it took for Sam to get on board with his brother's unhealthy eating habits was Dean's amazing ability to make burgers?

The main problem with Dean's treacle tart habit was that they could never find anywhere that sold it. This wasn't very surprising considering that was a British dessert, but that didn't stop Dean from whining about it constantly when they were on the road. This meant that whenever they were safely tucked away in the Men of Letters bunker researching or winding down from a hunt, Dean would call Harry over and get him to cook. Sam didn't have a problem with this, in fact, he welcomed it.  
Harry was a great cook and he never settled for just making the requested treacle tart – he would more often than not come out with a full three course meal. Apparently at both his boarding school and his best friend's house it was customary to serve a ridiculous amount of food that nobody could possibly finish.

Sam was also pleased that Dean had made such a good friend. Most of the time, Dean could be found in the kitchen helping Harry prepare whatever food he was making at the time, and he was surprised at how well Dean adapted to a domestic environment. Although when he thought about it, he wondered why he was so shocked. His brother had, after all, looked after him when he was a kid and his dad had been away on yet another hunt, leaving the boys to their own devices. Not to mention the year he spent living with Ben and Lisa.

No, the reason Sam wasn't happy with Harry coming over all the time had nothing to do with Harry at all. It was Sam's own cautiousness and reserve that was the problem. Harry was great company – he was polite, friendly, easy to talk to and even easier to get along with. Dean had gravitated to him right away, but Sam had held himself back.  
He'd made a mistake with Ruby. A stupid, stupid mistake that had cost him much of his relationship with his brother and had been the cause of the damn apocalypse. So when Dean had become fast friends with the younger man, Sam had deliberately stopped himself from becoming attached, because he knew how easily fondness could become blindness. He definitely did not want to become blind to any schemes Harry could be coming up with. He would not – could not allow it to happen again, not when the same thing had happened with Ruby.  
But now…he regretted it. Seeing Dean with such a strong bond of friendship made Sam crave it too. Of course he and Harry considered each other friends – but that friendship did not extend as deeply as the one Harry and Dean had. As Castiel had once said, he and Dean shared  _a more profound bond_. And usually Sam wouldn't mind. He was a little put out that he hadn't taken the opportunity to become close friends with the wizard, but the regret really surfaced when he saw just how lonely the other man was. It was a look he was all too familiar with, having seen it on his own face and his brother's – actually just about every hunter's face he had ever come across before. That was when he regretted not making the effort sooner. But, he resolved, as he looked around the library for books to give the man for his birthday (Harry had expressed an interest in learning more about hunting) it was time to make him apart of the family, and give him the proper welcome he deserved. And Sam was sure as Hell not going to let anything get in the way of making a Harry his brother in all but blood.


	3. The Three Swords

Dean had never thought he could be so worried about a Supernatural creature before.  
Sure Cas was extremely important to the Winchester's, especially Dean, to the point that he was almost a permanent fixture in their lives. It had been a long time since Dean had stopped seeing him as a supernatural creature, a monster, and started to consider him as a friend. Now, he was family.

Another brother that Dean had never realised he needed, but couldn't even imagine life without anymore. Sam was great, and Dean couldn't even express the amount of love and protectiveness he had for the kid (not that he could be considered even remotely close to being a kid anymore; physically or mentally) but there was something missing there. They both knew it, but neither was able to express themselves well enough to one another to talk it out, even if they wanted to. The fact was that Sam was a little selfish sometimes, particularly when it came to Dean. Of course he loved and cared about his brother, but he just didn't understand him the way Cas did. Where Sam would pester Dean to talk about his feelings, but not share anything of his own, Cas could break down the barriers surrounding him – cut through all his bullshit and see straight to the real problem. Despite having little understanding of human emotions, he always knew exactly what Dean was thinking, what he needed – even if he wasn't able to give it.

_You don't think you deserve to be saved._

That one sentence had thrown Dean for a loop. How was it that after spending most of his life with his little brother, Cas was the one that had understood so clearly? It was completely ridiculous, but the angel had just waltzed into their lives, saved Dean from an eternity in Hell, protected him, rebelled against Heaven for him and managed to make himself an irreplaceable part of their family.

And now that Cas was the one in need of help, there was nothing that Dean could do. Figures.  
The angel was in a bad way, all too pale skin and sharp angles from the bones pressing out against his skin. He'd lost a lot of weight lately, even though as far as Dean knew he didn't have to eat for sustenance. Dark circles stood out from his pallor as he struggled to take shallow, uneven breaths.  
Sighing, Dean lifted his hand to his forehead to feel for fever, but the skin was clammy and cold. Castiel was never cold. He was supposed to be bright eyes and cute obliviousness and ignorant of social norms, not cold and still and putting in boundless effort just to  _breathe_. Did angels even need to breathe? Dean didn't know, he'd never thought to ask. Just another thing to add to his ever-growing list of regrets.

"He doing any better?" Asked Sam as he walked into the library where they had Cas sprawled out on a couch. As he leaned over Dean to get a better look at the angel's prone form, Dean had a mad urge to shove him away. Everything his brother did these days was getting on his nerves, from breathing too loudly to talking too softly. God it was like having PMS, he swore he was turning into a hormonal woman every time he was within 10 feet of his brother.

"As well as he has been for the last two days." He said shortly, before reaching over to pour himself another shot. He caught Sam's eye and saw the disapproving look there, and decided to forgo the glass and drink straight from the bottle. "Don't give me the damn bitch face Sam, I'm not in the mood." He growled angrily.

Looking rather taken aback, Sam walked back over to the books he'd left open on the desk and resigned himself to another full day of hopelessly scouring the Men of Letter's library for a clue about what was ailing their friend. He had every book he could find on angel lore open, but there was barely any information they could use and even less that related to their current predicament.

"Maybe we should call Harry, he might be able to help us out." Sam hesitantly suggested. He never knew what topics might set his brother off these days, but hopefully mention of their mutual friend wasn't one of them. If they ever had need of Harry's help, it was now.

Sighing, Dean strode over to the fireplace and scattered some floo power into the grate. Calling Harry was a last resort; he didn't want to have to rely on the younger man too often. It was a trap he'd fallen into with Cas; demanding help every time something went wrong. In the long run it just made him feel ungrateful and guilty, especially considering how much Cas had done for the two of them. Poking his head cautiously into the fireplace (he didn't think he would ever feel comfortable communicating this way) he called "Number 12 Grimmauld Place" into the emerald flames, careful not to inhale any ashes. Harry had recalled the story of himself getting lost and reappearing in a dark magic shop far too often for Dean to forget to enunciate his destination clearly.

The next thing he knew, he was peering into a spotless kitchen with two pairs of legs seated at a long wooden table. There was a sudden scramble and the scraping of chairs, before he was greeted with two faces. One was very familiar; with bright green eyes and dishevelled inky black hair, the other belonged to a stranger. He was average height with vibrant red hair, freckles and a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Dean! What are you doing here, is everything okay?" Harry asked worriedly, looking at whatever parts of Dean he could see to check for signs of injury. Finding none, he sat back on his heels and waited for the other man to talk.

"I'm fine, but Cas isn't. He's been sick – or something – for a couple of days now. We didn't know what to do 'cause he hasn't woken up yet, but he's pale and he's been losing weight. Man, you can see his bones poking against his skin, it's not right. He's having trouble breathing too." Dean explained hurriedly, hoping desperately that Harry could something,  _anything_ , to make Cas okay again.

Harry frowned in thought before turning to his companion uncertainly.

"It's okay Harry, don't worry about it. This sounds important. Angelina's expecting me back soon anyway, I don't want her to worry too much. Thanks for the talk." Brushing off his knees, he stood smoothly and started heading for the door.

"George! Damn it… Hang on a second Dean." Harry followed George just outside the range of Dean's vision and he overheard a quiet, hurried conversation. Straining his ears, he could make out a few of the words being exchanged.

"Don't…wouldn't want…always here…serious…sorry…Fred."

He heard a rustling sound, more footsteps and the click of a door shutting. Sighing, Harry moved back into Dean's line of sight and ushered him back into the fireplace. Several seconds later, Harry appeared in the library.

"Sorry about that, George's twin brother was killed a while back and it's almost the anniversary…tensions are running a little high for all of us." He scrubbed a hand through his untameable hair as he approached the couch, and for the first time Dean noticed how worn down he looked. Dean could recognise the signs of insomnia instantly having had a lot of unpleasant firsthand experience with it, and it didn't look like the kid had been sleeping lately. Hell, he almost looked as bad as Cas did, minus the unconsciousness which may have been a blessing in this case anyway.  
He frowned a little in concern but decided not to comment. Cas was the first priority here. Besides, didn't Harry say that there was some kind of death anniversary coming up? He was probably losing some sleep thinking about the people he'd lost; something Dean was no stranger to either. He allowed himself to be distracted by the wizard pulling out his word and murmuring a seemingly random bunch of Latin words under his breath.

"I'm just casting some diagnostic spells." He chuckled wryly, "I'm always getting myself into stupid situations where I get hurt, so a friend of mine finally got fed up with it and taught me a bit of healing."

"That sounds handy." Commented Sam, who had also approached the couch and was watching Harry's attempts with undisguised interest.

"It is when you're as accident prone as I am. I'm sure you and Dean would find it useful" Harry smiled back. "Has Cas been handling any cursed objects lately? I'm getting some pretty skewed readings and I don't know if it's his grace interfering or if something else is at work here."

"He said something about cursed swords before he showed up like this but he never said if he actually found any," Sam said, chewing thoughtfully on his bottom lip, "I've been researching them to try and find out what happened, but no luck so far."

"I can take him to St. Mungo's – it's a wizarding hospital in London. They have a whole floor dedicated to Artefact Accidents and the staff are discreet. I don't know how much they can do without the actual object though." Harry replied, gingerly feeling Cas' pulse. "Even if his vessel is damaged we have no way of knowing how badly Cas himself is injured…if this was even caused by an injury. Maybe if we can heal his vessel though, it'll speed up his recovery. What d'you think?"

Dean contemplated it for a few minutes. There was nothing else they could do for him here, and maybe magical doctors would be able to help Cas. Still, he was loath to let the angel out of his sight and he didn't think that a 'muggle' like himself would be allowed to visit St. Mungo's. If it was the best thing for Cas though…then there was nothing else for it.  
"Alright, take him to the hospital. But I expect hourly updates, understand? I'll help Sam figure out what the hell was going on with those damn swords." Dean conceded grumpily.

With a small nod in Dean's direction, Harry tightly gripped Cas' arm and turned on the spot, disappearing with an almost inaudible 'pop'.

* * *

Sam spent the next three days desperately avoiding his brother whenever possible. While it wasn't exactly unusual for Dean to be grouchy and abrasive, ever since Harry had left with Cas he was becoming almost unbearable. Storming around in a perpetually foul mood, he'd taken to splitting his time between snapping orders at Sam like a drill sergeant, reading every book on curse objects that he could get his hands on cover-to-cover, and drinking a small brewery's worth of alcohol in an alarmingly short amount of time. It spoke volumes about Dean's borderline alcoholic habits that he wasn't yet in a state of constant drunkenness.  
Sam was sure that after the week was through they would have scoured every book in the enormous library. With only Harry's infrequent visits reporting on Castiel's lack of change in condition to break the monotony and underlining anxiety, it was fast becoming the least enjoyable week they had experienced in several months.  
They did eventually make a breakthrough concerning the curse swords after Dean finally got tired of poring through an endless supply of increasingly unhelpful books and decided to call some of John's old contacts instead. After about six frustratingly unproductive phone calls which only served to worsen Dean's already tenuous temper, he finally found some answers from an antique weapons dealer named Quincey Stern. The man had babbled excitedly about the creepy guy in the tan trench coat who had collapsed and then disappeared into thin air for a full five minutes before Dean could calm him down (although it sounded more like unashamed intimidation to Sam's ears) enough to ask about the swords. The question caused Stern to become oddly sombre, a sudden and jarring change in personality.

"Ah yes, the three swords. Each was named for a great deed undertaken in the name of God. They originated in Morocco, I believe. At least, that's as far back as I could trace them. Eventually they were lost, passing from hand to hand over the centuries. The odd thing is though; they were never split up. Usually items such as these that were forged together separate eventually. People only have an interest in one, so they buy it and the rest are left in the hands of the merchant selling them until another buyer comes along. Not with these blades though. With the exception of the first time they were wielded – each was owned by one of three brothers – they have always been together. I came across them in Manama when I was travelling a few years back. They were exquisite; amazing craftsmanship, even centuries have done nothing to tarnish their beauty."

"Have you heard any legends about them being cursed? I'm writing a paper on cursed African and Middle Eastern artefacts and I would really appreciate anything you could tell me." Dean asked in what he had officially termed his 'kiss-ass' voice, smirking when Sam rolled his eyes at him.

"There are some superstitions; of course there always are when you're dealing with old artefacts, particularly weapons. Witchcraft is quite a common belief in Morocco, and it has been said that these swords were imbued with magical power when they were forged. If you believe the legend, they were originally created to slay witches – those with supernatural powers. I wouldn't quite say that they're cursed though."

Dean quickly ended the conservation and hung up the phone, turning to exchange looks with Sam.  
"Well I guess that explains why the damn things zapped Cas. They sensed his angel mojo and went to town on his feathery ass. I wonder why they didn't kill him though."

"Maybe they didn't finish off Cas because his vessel protected him. It doesn't matter. I think you're missing the bigger picture here Dean. Those swords – they  _kill_  supernatural creatures. If we can get them, that's one – or three – new weapons we can use to hunt with. You know it's only a matter of time until another big bad comes along gunning for our heads. This means extra protection!" Sam replied with no small amount of excitement. They were constantly looking for an edge over the enemy, maybe this was it.

"Yeah but I think you're forgetting that we have to hand them in to the hospital so they can cure Cas!" Dean snapped, losing his patience. Spending the last few days so strung out worrying about his angelic best friend had definitely not helped his stress levels, and arguing with his little brother was the last thing he wanted to do right now.

"Maybe each sword is infused with a different type of magic and Cas was only affected by one! That still leaves us with two new weapons; we can hand one in to the hospital and keep the other two for ourselves!"

"And how exactly are we gonna tell which one turned Cas into sleeping beauty?"

"We can get Harry to-"

"Sam, those damn things could kill him! He's not coming within 20 feet of them!"

"Then how the hell are we going to get them to hospital in the first place Dean?!" Sam raised his voice to a shout. He was so sick of Dean's attitude lately.

Dean opened his mouth to yell back, before faltering and shutting it again. "I hadn't thought about that." He said slowly, frowning in thought.

"Of course not." Sam rolled his eyes. "Let's call Harry back before we go and get the swords. We can ask his opinion before we accidently kill him with cursed artefacts. I doubt he'd be too happy with us if we did."

After dropping one of the huge gold coins Harry had given them into the fire to signal him to visit, they lounged around for a while to wait. The wizard had told them that whatever happened to their coin would be mimicked by his, so if they heated it up, Harry would feel it and know to drop by.

A ten minutes and a popping sound later, an edgy looking Harry appeared in the middle of the room. "Look, I know I haven't been checking in every hour like I said I would but I've really had my hands full. Please tell me you've found something and didn't just call me here just to chew me out. It's been a really long week." He looked completely exhausted, and both Winchester's were suddenly very happy that they had some good news for him.

It only took a few minutes to describe the situation with the swords, during which Harry explained that his Master of Death powers would probably protect him from any negative effect the swords could have on them.

Feeling completely confident for the first time in a week now that they had a feasible plan, Sam and Dean were able to fall into a familiar pattern that made stealing the swords go off without a hitch. For a man that so obviously loved his collection of antique weapons, Quincey Stern didn't do such a great job at protecting them from potential thieves. Security was so ridiculously lax at his shop that Sam and Dean were practically able to walk in and out with the swords. Quincey was right about the quality of the swords though. They were simple and understated, but it was easy to see their subtle beauty.  
After returning them to the bunker, Harry kicked both Winchesters out of the room with the explanation that he needed to ward the blades to protect the healers at St. Mungo's – something that he needed complete concentration to accomplish.

"I'm not really that good at warding, there's far too many complexities and variables you have to cover. One little loophole and suddenly there's a bunch of dead people laying about. I'll just do some simple enchantments, and then I'll take them to a friend of mine who specialises in cursed objects and warding sigils. He just got back from Egypt last month and he can make sure it's done properly. With any luck, Cas will be better in no time."

* * *

Unfortunately 'no time' didn't come quickly at all, and it was another two days before they heard back from Harry. By this time, Dean was so strung out that he almost broke several of Garth's fingers when the younger man dropped by unannounced and made the mistake of trying to swipe his beer in what he perceived as an innocent gesture of friendship. Sam's irritability levels were off the charts due to the close exposure to his brother, and Garth quickly decided that he actually didn't need help on the rugaru case he was working after all.

Harry showed up again at around midnight the day after Garth's departure and didn't seem at all surprised to find the brothers awake and lounging around opposite ends of the library.  
"You two look like hell. Are you really that bad at looking after yourselves when I'm not around? Honestly, I have no idea how you've managed to survive this long." He commented.  
He had a point too – it didn't look like either one of them had eaten or slept in a week.

"Hark who's talking. Is Cas gonna be alright?" Dean asked, stretching and moving over to give Harry a place to sit on the couch.

"He'll be fine. We figured out which sword hurt him, and believe me, he's lucky that it was that one. It turns out that each sword has a different effect on whatever supernatural creature comes near it. The one that knocked Cas out is supposed to kill instantly but because his vessel is human it only put him in a comatose state. One was enchanted boil your eyeballs and skin so that you die in agony, and the other causes spontaneous combustion. Considering they wouldn't be able to kill him and he would be stuck like that until the healers managed to fix him…it wouldn't have been a very pleasant week for any of us." Harry replied, accepting the beer that Dean pressed into his hand.

"Damn, I didn't realise we got lucky. It's probably the only time that anything's ever gone our way." Dean smiled, completely unable to hide his relief.

Sam huffed in annoyance. He'd spent all week trying to cheer his brother up and stop him from worrying, and one word from Harry and he was suddenly all sunshine and rainbows. Although he couldn't quite blame Dean when he was feeling the same relief himself.

"I'm surprised you two haven't asked about the swords yet," Harry said, raising one quizzical eyebrow, "I thought I would be bombarded with questions the second I got here. Have you finally managed to stress yourselves into complete exhaustion or what?"

Dean turned so fast that Sam was sure he'd given himself whiplash.

"You have them?' He demanded, more of a statement than a question.

"Of course. You know I always come through for you guys. They're still warded; it would be too dangerous for me to carry them around otherwise. If you want to use them feel free, but you'll have to get me to remove the sigils first. Next time you go on a big hunt summon me and I'll fix them up for you, but until then keep them under lock and key. I don't think Cas would thank you if you left them lying around and he got cursed again." He said, pulling two swords out of a bag they hadn't even noticed until then. "St. Mungo's still has the other one, sorry. Their policy is to hand cursed objects over to the Ministry so that they don't end up in circulation again."

Their conversation was cut short by the sudden appearance of Castiel in Sam's lap, who then proceeded to shriek and flail, falling off his end of the couch.  
"CAS! What the hell?" Sam spluttered from his new position on the floor.

"My apologies, I am still…disorientated." The angel apologised over Harry and Dean's raucous laughter, standing up and straightening his coat.

"Cas, what are you doing here? You're supposed to be in St. Mungo's." Harry managed to stop laughing for long enough to ask.

Cas turned to Harry solemnly, eying the swords in each of his hands with something akin to distaste.  
"The damage inflicted on my vessel was severely undermining my ability to heal myself. Once the curse was removed, my condition improved enough for me to transport myself here. I no longer have any need for the wizarding hospital."

"Oh, that's good I suppose. See, I told you two not to worry." Harry smiled at the brothers, smothering laughter at the look of shock still frozen on Sam's face.

"Yeah…good." Sam said, shaking himself out of his daze and reclaiming his spot on the couch. "Why were you looking for the swords anyway Cas?" He asked curiously.

"My brothers were searching for them and I wanted to know why. Now I do. They are extremely dangerous. I can see that you have warded them to render them harmless, but I am not sure that keeping them is wise." Cas replied, frowning a little and cocking his head to the side like he usually did when thinking.

"Ease up Cas. We'll be careful and we promise to only use them if it's really, really important." Dean reassured him, wrapping an arm tightly around his shoulders and guiding him to the couch.

That night was easily the best one any of them had experienced in weeks, the tension and worry easing away gradually until it was replaced with the warm and fuzzy sort of comfort that is only felt when surrounded by the closest of family. Because really, that's what the four of them were. And when Sam woke up on the couch the next morning to find himself in an odd sort of dog pile with an angel, his brother and a bright eyed wizard, he could only smile his gratitude that their luck was finally changing for the better.


	4. George

Harry glanced happily around the room from his place on the sofa. He'd been feeling a little down lately, with the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts coming up and his utter inability to pull George Weasley out of his funk. The twin was always quiet and withdrawn during this time of year, dragged down by bitter memories of his dead brother. He and Harry had stumbled upon a kind of informal tradition, spending the 2nd of May together each year. In the initial aftermath of the battle it had been extremely hard for the both of them, plagued by constant nightmares and continuous reminders of all that they had lost.

Harry had woken repeatedly in the middle of the night drenched in sweat; recalling horrible, disorienting dreams of dead eyes and vicious, accusing voices and rotten hands reaching for him, sinking into darkness that he could not escape as much as he struggled, eventually giving in and falling into the black depths and then flashing green light and Voldemort's merciless eyes boring into his own, into his mind, intruding, taunting,  _raping_. He could never remember the exact details of what had happened when he slept but he had always woken confused and terrified. Not much better were the endlessly long days he was forced to endure with people either congratulating him or hounding him, asking for interviews and taking pictures, only for him to be condemned by his own mind when he was unable to hold back sleep. It was maddening. He wanted to yell at people – scream at them! He wasn't a hero and he didn't want to be treated as one. Couldn't they see what their freedom had cost? The lives of so many innocent people he had cherished, each loss crushing a little piece of him, maybe beyond repair. He had expected the relief to overwhelm the exhaustion and grief. He had expected to be happy – or at least content – now that he was no longer forced to fight for his life. But instead he felt constantly on edge, tense as though waiting for the anvil to drop. Another crisis, another Dark Lord following in Voldemort's shoes, more death, destruction. He supposed he finally knew a little of how Mad Eye Moody had felt all the time. Constant vigilance; always waiting for another attack, always-present paranoia and battle instincts kicking in whenever he heard a scream or a loud noise. Although those remnant instincts from the war  _had_ helped him quite a bit during his time as an Auror, and had eventually lessened in severity, it had still been hard to deal with at first. The war had taken its toll on him even more than he had realized.

It was around this time that he'd also noticed his feelings for Ginny waning. He still cared for her of course, but as more time went by he gradually began to realize that he hadn't been in love with her so much as the idea of her. His shining light to guide him out of the darkness, a beacon of hope; of a future. When things had seemed at their worst he had needed to find a reason to continue what had felt like an impossible task, something to go back to, to look forward to. On those nights when he felt like he was merely floundering in the dark, nothing to carry him onward and only death in his future, Ginny had become his reason to keep pushing through. He had to survive; he had to see her again, to hold her. She was waiting for him. He had fixated on her so much during those months that he hadn't actually considered what it would be like seeing her again and attempting an actual, stable relationship.  
It had been a little strained at first, both of them still dealing with everything that had happened. Unfortunately their relationship only worsened his difficulties, as he had to deal with even more guilt on top of everything else. He didn't love her as much as either of them wanted him to and distancing himself to spare her from his problems only hurt her feelings. He wanted to be there for her after she had just lost her brother, but he couldn't even get past his own issues and he knew that it was taking a toll on both of them. Eventually the guilt won out and he ended the relationship.

Hermione and Ron didn't have it as badly as he did, and they could at least take solace in each other during the long nights and constant reminders of what they had faced. As Harry had expected, the thing they were struggling most with was the aftermath of Hermione's torture at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange. It seemed that both had been having nightmares about it, and Hermione had experienced bouts of phantom pain for a few weeks after the battle; apparently a relatively common side-effect of the Cruciatus Curse. It wasn't until he had finally given in to the very conspicuous concerned looks he'd seen directed his way constantly and their increasingly worried prodding that had finally spoken to the two of them. Hermione had suggested that he may be suffering from some form of PTSD, and that perhaps he should take some time away from the wizarding world to get away from the constant reminders of the war. The couple had also helped alleviate some of his guilt over breaking up with Ginny by giving him some perspective into his own emotional state. He had been living with a fragment of Voldemort's soul for almost twenty years; obviously it would have affected him in some way, especially given its close proximity to his own soul. Being so close to something so warped and twisted for all of that time and then having it suddenly ripped away would be bound to have some effect on his mind.

So, he had packed up some belongings the next week and all but fled to the country, finding himself truly isolated for the first time in over a year. It was incredibly freeing. All he had to worry about was looking after himself; there were no responsibilities, no people relying on him, no deaths he had to prevent or prophesies he had to fulfill. He finally felt what it was like to be completely free for the first time in his life. After a few days he was joined by none other than George Weasley. Apparently he had managed to get his brother and sister-in-law to divulge his top-secret location. Harry really couldn't bring himself to blame George for wanting to get away for a while. The shattered family was still grief-stricken and his presence only exacerbated the situation because of his likeness to his diseased brother. Mrs Weasley was affected particularly badly by George's appearance, clearly fighting hard not to burst into tears whenever she saw her son but still trying to stay brave and support him through the loss of his twin. It was still much too raw and painful to be at home, especially during the anniversary of his death.

George's presence was somewhat therapeutic to them both, and they managed to enjoy themselves despite the circumstances. From then on George would visit Harry without fail, every year on the 2nd of May, the two of them either drinking together or just enjoying each other's company. Of course they saw each other often in-between these visits, but the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts was  _their_  day, and only theirs. Nobody else had even suggested intruding on the private occasion. Harry had once asked George  _why_  he chose to spend this day with him and not his family, to which George only replied that Harry  _was_  family and he knew that he wouldn't want to spend the day with the Weasleys because he would (wrongly) feel like an intruder on their grief. Therefore it was logical for one of the family to stay with him, and he was the lucky one that the task fell to. Harry knew that this wasn't the entire truth, but he was touched nonetheless so didn't pry any further. However the next time he asked, a couple of years later after a fair few shots of firewhiskey , George finally told him that spending the day with somebody who had suffered more than he had put his troubles into perspective, and it made him feel marginally better than spending it with somebody who just didn't understand. After all, who could understand loss better than Harry Potter? This response had Harry feeling rather taken aback – George thought that he had suffered more? He supposed he had suffered more hardships from a certain perspective, but he couldn't even imagine losing somebody so close to him. Fred and George had spent every day of their lives together. They were best friends, brothers, twins. They knew each other better than anybody in the world. And now every time George looked in the mirror, he would be forced to see his brother's face. But Harry could definitely sympathize with the loss of a loved one.

So the tradition had continued, every year until this year. George had shown up three days early, gaze vacant and far from his usual exuberant self. He had recovered a lot more of his old mischievousness and spark in the years since the war, but none of it had shown on that day at Grimmauld Place. He had been distant, accepting the tea that Harry had offered him in the spotless kitchen but not speaking. Harry had sat silently with him, knowing that it wasn't the right time to push, but offering as much support as he could just by his presence. He had never been gladder than then that George was willing to come to him when he needed a shoulder to lean on.

The day after the near-disaster that had Castiel nearly dying from a cursed sword, Harry had gone straight over to the little house that George was sharing with his wife, Angelina. Trying not to let his worry show and failing, he practically burst into the living room, ready to shake George out of his depression by any means necessary. The scene he encountered was very, very far from what he had been expecting. George and Angelina were talking excitedly in low voices, big smiles on both of their faces. Stopping dead, Harry hesitated, unwilling to break up the happy moment and suddenly feeling like an intruder in their home. (Which he realized belatedly, he kind of was). Sensing his presence, the couple turned towards him, Angelina sending him a secretive smile before slipping out of the room.

Feeling rather bewildered, Harry stood there for a good ten seconds before he was pulled into a tight hug by the redhead.

"Angelina's pregnant!" He exclaimed, a bright smile lighting up his freckled face. "Sorry I didn't tell you that day I came to Grimmauld Place, I was just so shocked! I guess I was kind of in disbelief. Can you believe it Harry? A baby! A real baby! Blimey, I'm gonna be a dad!"

Harry had to smile at that, stifling a chuckle at how similar his reaction was to Ron's when he heard about Teddy's birth. If anyone deserved a loving family, it was George Weasley.

"That's brilliant! I'm so happy for the two of you." He grinned, pulling George into another hug.

Pulling back, George paused for a moment looking almost anxious. "If it's a boy, we're going to name him Fred." He said, his smile turning a little bittersweet.

"I think he would have liked that. Could you imagine the trouble two Fred Weasleys could have gotten in together? Especially if you got involved too." Harry added, laughing softly.

Harry stayed for dinner that night, soaking up the happiness that the couple just seemed to exude. Truthfully he was a little jealous. Having children was something that he hadn't put a lot of thought into, but when he  _did_ think about it, it was something that he wanted. A proper family, with kids he could raise and care for, and watch grow and eventually have children of their own. He wasn't desperate for a family or anything, but the thought was nice. As it was, he had a godson in Teddy Lupin and that was enough for him for now. He supposed it was like being a parent without any of the drawbacks, and that was perfectly fine by him.

He returned to the Men of Letters Bunker the next day in a much better mood, something that both Winchesters seemed to pick up on. Dean immediately drew him into the kitchen to try a new creation that he'd come up with (a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with hundreds-and-thousands, banana  _and_  bacon) while Sam watched with a kind of disgusted interest after refusing to eat the thing himself. And Harry realized that since meeting the Winchesters, some of the always-lingering but never-quite-there remnant pain from the war had faded.

Perhaps he did have a family after all.


	5. Hunting

Harry frowned to himself as he skimmed through the morning paper that Dean had unceremoniously dumped in front of him. Despite having been on quite a few hunts with the brothers, he had yet to master the skill of finding new hunts based on reports from the media. Pretty much anything could be construed as strange or abnormal without it necessarily meaning something supernatural was afoot.  
A woman somehow managing to get herself stuck in an armchair for 17 hours straight and having to call the fire-brigade to free her was strange (and hilarious) sure, but probably not something they needed to look into. Three people drowning in their bathtubs in one night was a little more likely to have unnatural origins. But then there were the in-betweens. Sam and Dean had laughed at him when he pointed out a steep increase in dog attacks in Wisconsin, but Harry thought that it was perfectly reasonable that they could have been controlled or disturbed by a spirit or another dangerous creature. Apparently the Winchesters needed more proof than that before they drove halfway across the country to look at dogs. Harry was disappointed.

* * *

But that wasn't to say that he hadn't picked up any new skills. He had learned to fire a gun – albeit awkwardly and with extremely poor aim. Dean had only stopped teasing him about it after Harry had successfully managed to save his life by shooting a werewolf in the shoulder with a silver bullet, enough to distract it from attempting to tear his jugular out but not enough to kill it. (Harry had neglected to mention that it was entirely an accident – he always forgot to put the safety on and he hadn't meant to pull the trigger anyhow).

He'd taken much more easily to knives, although he still wasn't very good at using them. This was something that both brothers were very excited about much to Harry's confusion. They usually favoured guns, but he supposed they were just relieved that he wasn't entirely useless at everything they tried to show him.  
He had often carried a knife around in his boot as an Auror just as a precaution, although he hadn't been forced to use it very often. Ron had always called him crazily prepared, something he supposed he'd picked up from Hermione after so many years running around together.

Exorcisms were definitely what he excelled at though, due to his experience in using Latin to perform spells. He was proud to admit that he was even better at it than the Winchesters, who tended to garble the words a little thanks to their accents. It was one thing learning and reciting words out of a book, and quite another to have a relatively deep understanding of the language itself. Thanks to Hermione's insatiable thirst for knowledge, Harry had come out of his schooling with small tidbits of random information crammed into his brain, even though he couldn't consciously remember  _when_  he had learned it. He figured that he had subconsciously remembered a lot of the things that Hermione had told him about, even if he hadn't realized it at the time.  
It was surprising just how much more smoothly exorcisms went with Harry reciting the rites, with the demon being exorcised more quickly and being able to put up far less resistance. Dean had been grumpy over this revelation for several days, before Sam pointed out that it would result in the two of them taking fewer beatings in the middle of a failed exorcism if something went wrong. And they were all willing to admit; with the Winchester's God-awful luck something always went wrong.

What he had been rather surprised at was how similar hunting was to his time as an Auror. Both required some amount of cunning and resourcefulness, quick thinking and an extreme reliance on instincts when things turned dangerous. Harry had always had excellent instincts and his first reaction was generally the right one. That was one of the things that had raised him above the standard of the other Aurors (excluding the whole Chosen One, Master of Death debacle). One thing that he had always enjoyed about being an Auror was the feeling of accomplishment it never failed to leave him with. It was something that he was  _good_ at. After a whole lifetime of being placed in mortal peril, fighting and coming out on top was something that came as naturally to him as flying had. His squad had the record for the fewest deaths and fewest injuries in Ministry history, which was impressive especially considering that it had been during the uncertain aftermath of the war and he'd been tasked with hunting down Voldemort's remaining Lieutenants. He was just happy that he was finally being acknowledged for his accomplishments, not just for surviving Avada Kedavra as a baby or his defeat of Voldemort that had nothing to do with his skill at duelling and everything to do with his mother's love and his accidental possession of the Elder Wand. He could actually feel proud of what he had achieved as an Auror, because he had done so on his own merits.  
Hunting was largely the same. When Sam and Dean congratulated him after a difficult hunt he knew that they were completely sincere, because he  _had_  done well, and they trusted him to be at their backs, just as he trusted them.

So, when they teased him mercilessly about his useless gun technique, or showed him how to correct his stance when swinging a knife or throwing a punch he took it in good stride, listening closely and practising the way they showed him, because they really did want to help him improve. It wasn't the kind of arrogant posturing the Aurors at the Ministry had displayed when he had first started as a trainee, boasting that they were better at some things than the Boy Who Lived. That had always infuriated Harry to no end. Of course they were better than he was, they were trained professionals with years of experience under their belts and he had been a scrawny eighteen year old kid fresh out of a war

But the one thing (two things actually) that made hunting so much more enjoyable than being an Auror were Sam and Dean Winchester. They never judged him or scrutinised him the way he was back at the Ministry. Despite  _everything_ that had happened, even Ron, his best friend since he was eleven was still prone to random fits of jealousy even though he had become much better adjusted than he was as a teenager. The truth was that Ron had been much more popular than Harry during their years as Aurors. Ron was open and friendly, easy to talk to and his funny and slightly dopey personality drew people to him. Harry on the other hand was quieter, more moody often snapped at people for questioning him about his actions and whereabouts during the war. People either admired him to point that they couldn't hold a proper conversation with him or tried to force themselves into his company constantly, and in the end it left him with little desire to make new friends. Sure, everyone had looked up to him and respected his abilities, but he was left with Ron as his only actual friend at work (who constantly grumbled about his anti-social tendencies). Unfortunately he and Ron were eventually placed in separate squads, so Harry was left without anybody to care for him on a personal level. It was different with the Winchesters. They were ridiculously over-protective of family and as far as they were concerned, Harry was apart of that group whether he liked it or not. (He did. He liked it a lot).

* * *

Harry sighed as he folded up the newspaper, resting his head contentedly in his arms. A headline stood out and he reached for the paper again, carefully reading the section and smiling a little bemusedly to himself. Three people had drowned in their bathtubs overnight in Maine, what were the odds? Maybe he was a seer…? He entertained himself for a moment with a mental image of himself wearing Professor Trelawney's ridiculously oversized glasses and shawl before snorting with laughter and calling out to the Sam and Dean.

"What is it?" Dean asked as he sidled carelessly into the library, Sam a few steps behind him.

"I just found us our next hunt." Harry grinned, sliding the newspaper along the table for the two of them to read.

"Looks like you found your first legitimate hunt," Dean smirked as he read the article, "too bad Aquaman only works in the ocean." He added as an afterthought as he began ambling back towards the staircase to grab his hunting gear.

Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Sam followed suit, but not before he directed a quick thumbs up and a smile in Harry's direction.  
Frowning a little in confusion but deciding to forgo asking what on Earth an 'Aquaman' was at the risk of an even more confusing answer, Harry sent a last glance at the newspaper before heading up the staircase as well.

Maybe he wasn't so bad at this hunting thing after all.


	6. Guilt

Sam glanced over at Harry for the umpteenth time that morning, sighing a little under his breath as he took in the dark smudges under the younger man's eyes and the dejected slouch of his narrow shoulders. Maybe he should say something…? If it was Dean sulking in the corner, none of this would be a problem. Sam was more than used to dealing with his brother's emotional issues. Usually a few words of encouragement and a reminder that there were people around him who cared could snap Dean out of a funk, as long as the issue wasn't too serious. But with Harry… Sam hated to admit it but the two of them were still on slightly uncertain ground. Would the wizard even accept a pep talk from him? He didn't mean to come off as patronizing, but after the first time Harry had snapped at him for trying to cheer him up, Sam had left that sort of thing up to Dean. It was kind of sad that Sam was still jealous about how easily the other hunter could connect with people. Whenever they made new acquaintances, whoever it was would flock straight to Dean. Cas, Harry, Charlie, Benny, and even Bobby had admitted that Dean was his favourite, and Sam was fairly sure that his own father felt the same way. Parents weren't supposed to have favourites, but he supposed that John Winchester never was much of a father anyway.

Gritting his teeth, he stood so abruptly that he knocked his chair over and managed to startle Harry out of his navel contemplating at the same time. Ignoring the bewildered look on his friend's face, he stalked over and sat directly in front of him, pretending not to notice the slight flinch that the motion produced.

"Are you going to sit there moping forever?" He asked quietly, creasing his brow. He wasn't sure exactly how old Harry really was – he looked to be in his early twenties but sometimes he just seemed… old somehow. At the moment though, he had never appeared younger. It was apparent in the way he was curled in on himself, green eyes studiously avoiding Sam's gaze. When Harry didn't answer him, he shifted even closer and leaned forward intently.

"Look, Dean's gonna be fine, he's been through way worse than this and still come out swinging. I don't blame you for what happened, and he sure as hell doesn't. It was his decision." He consoled.

Harry scowled a little, squirming in his seat sheepishly for a second before fixing his eyes on the older hunter. "Sorry," he sighed, "You probably want to be with Dean right now, not babysitting the idiot who got him hurt in the first place."

Encouraged that the other man was actually looking at him, let alone talking, Sam hurriedly continued the conversation. "You're right, you are an idiot." He said bluntly, "You blame yourself too much, you know that? Seriously, you have a guilt complex or something. Dean jumped in front of that rugaru to save you from getting your throat ripped out. If anything, the whole thing was actually my fault. If you hadn't been watching my back you wouldn't have been distracted and it wouldn't have got the jump on you."

"I guess you're right – not about it being your fault," Harry added quickly, "If anything it was Dean's fault for trying to protect me. I probably could gotten a shield up on time if he hadn't knocked me out of the way. It's just – he just reminded me of something that happened a long time ago. You never really get over the guilt of someone sacrificing themselves to save you."

Unbidden, thoughts flashed lightning-fast through Sam's mind. Dean, making a deal to save him. Dean finally admitting he didn't want to go to Hell. Sam  _promising_ that he would save his brother somehow. Dean being torn to shreds by hellhounds before his eyes. His lifeless body being lowered into a grave, only observed by two heartbroken witnesses.  _Decades_ of horror and scars and agony that even an angel could never wash clean. Dean, curled up and panicking and  _dying_ because he was so terrified of being sent back there. The nightmares and drinking and suffering etched on his brother's face, all too clear in his bloodshot eyes.

"No," he said, "You really don't."

* * *

Dean was – of course – completely fine by the end of the week. The rugaru had only managed to take a chunk out of his shoulder, and even that was healed relatively quickly with the help of some of Castiel's angel 'mojo'. Sam also had the pleasure of watching the extremely awkward apology that an embarrassed Harry struggled to bestow upon his confused brother. It was heart-warming and alarming in equal measure how well those two got along. And as ashamed as Sam was that he could be envious of such a strong friendship, he couldn't help but be glad that Harry was there to support Dean. After all, Sam wouldn't be around forever. If and when he finally died, at least he knew that his brother would be surrounded by people who genuinely cared about him. It was the most he could ask for.


	7. Books

Hindsight was a funny thing. Most of the time, Sam saw his childhood as a series of cheap motel rooms, an absentee father who dragged them into all kinds of unnecessary danger, and an annoying, perverted older brother who was far too willing to jump into that danger at any chance he got. Life was scary for a child who not only knew that the monsters under his bed were real, but that his entire living family were throwing themselves at them like confetti in an attempt to kill an even more terrifying monster that had already taken his mother.  
So really, it was no wonder that he turned to books as an escape.  
Whenever he was worried that his dad or Dean wouldn't come back from their current hunt, he would bury himself in a book to while the time away before they barged in the door, bleeding, exhausted and (in Dean's case; not so much their father's) smiling like they'd just won the damn lottery. It was just frustrating; how could they not see that they were risking their lives constantly for revenge for something that had happened over a decade ago? Sam couldn't consciously remember his mother, he only had the photos and stories (again, from Dean; his father barely talked about her), and sometimes he could remember a faint impression of flowers – roses maybe. But that didn't mean he hadn't cared about her. His father seemed to take it as a personal insult whenever he pointed out how pointless it was risking all of their lives for something so stupid. And then of course, John would claim that they were protecting  _other_  families from the same thing happening to them. As if they didn't all know that his father's all-consuming obsession with killing the yellow-eyed demon was purely an attempt to avenge his dead wife. It wasn't right and it wasn't fair on any of them.  
In Sam's books, the villain was always defeated. The hero suffered, yes, but they overcame whatever trials they were faced with, won the affections of the love of their life, and triumphed at the end of story. All that Sam could see at the end of his family's story was failure and death.

Sometimes though, when he was feeling uncharacteristically positive about his life so far, Sam would actually be grateful for his past. There was no better teacher than experience. If he had grown up with an average, uneventful life, what would he do when supernatural monsters eventually came knocking? Lie down and die because he didn't know how to defend himself? Even the worst moments were punctuated with small, negligible things that seemed far more special in comparison. Winding down by relaxing with Dean and watching a crappy rerun of some old movie or tv show, having an actual civilised conversation with his father about school or his friends; just small things that would mean nothing to other people were extremely enjoyable for him, probably because they made him feel  _normal_.  
These moments didn't really happen in his books though. They were there, but not nearly enough attention was ever directed towards their significance. People couldn't keep fighting forever. If they did, they would lose sight of what they were fighting for. Those stolen moments were so important to Sam that he couldn't imagine taking them for granted.  
It was during those moments that he gained an even greater respect for his older brother. Even bleeding, broken and weighed down by their father's completely unfair expectations, Dean would always find the time to help Sam with his homework, to tease him about the girls in his class, to help him train with weapons so John wouldn't be so hard on him the next time they did drills, and even to comfort him on the rare occasion that he woke from nightmares. It was actually pretty embarrassing the amount of times they had shared a bed when they were younger as a result of Sam's frequent night terrors.  
Sam was even occasionally glad to have had his father. It was obvious that John Winchester cared about his sons, despite his inability to treat them as the children they were, instead of the soldiers that he was trying to mould them into. He was a truly terrifying sight to behold when either of his sons were threatened, which was rather ironic as far as Sam was concerned; considering he was the one that usually dragged them into danger in the first place. Despite his reservations, Sam had always known that his father loved him; the problem with their relationship was that he didn't  _understand_ him. After Mary died, John became so consumed with avenging her that everything else seemed completely insignificant. He couldn't comprehend how people could just continue on with their lives, when he had lost the centre of his entire world. And he certainly couldn't understand why his own son of all people wanted to (or even could) run off to college and live a normal life, when the thing that killed his own mother was still out there somewhere.  
Dean hadn't helped at all in that respect. Acting like the perfect little soldier and following every order to the letter just made Sam look even worse in comparison, and further disconnected the two of them.

It was strange though, now that he thought about it. When he was younger, Sam was always the one badmouthing his father while Dean defended him. He had just begun to notice that now it was the opposite. Dean had finally stopped worshipping the ground their father walked on, and begun to realise just how wrong it was for him to leave his leave his kids alone for weeks at a time, to encourage them to hustle pool for money and scheme and lie, to thrust them into combat situations like he had. At the same time, Sam had gained a new respect for some of the situations John had been forced into, for some of the decisions he'd had to make. Life was rarely black and white, and theirs had been anything but.  
They didn't put that in the books either. The villain was bad, the hero was good. They made choices in accordance with that simple system. But what if the villain was merely a misunderstood creature that didn't want to hurt anyone? What if the hero was as bad as the monsters he claimed to fight? Black and grey, blurred lines, questions of morality. Things that hunters must face each and every day. Should you kill a newly turned monster on the chance that they  _might_  hurt somebody one day? Or should you exterminate them and leave nothing to chance?  
His father tended to go for the ruthless, leave none alive approach. Sam could respect that, and he had to admit – it was a line of thinking that he was adhering to more often of late. His brother on the other hand… John told him once that Dean took after their mother. He looked like her, acted like her and thought like her. It was fleeting, but there were certain expressions and mannerisms that he must have picked up from her, either genetically or in person as a child. Dean tended to go for the softer route – sparing as many lives as he could as often as he could, even if it might lead to more casualties in the future. It was definitely a change from his earlier attitude. Sam used to think him weak for it, but now he realised that it took a special kind of strength, to not know where your decisions might lead, but to stick by them anyway. Sam wasn't sure that he had that kind of strength anymore. Decisions used to be easy, but now every turn they took seemed to finish in another dead end, another bad choice. He just didn't know anymore.  
So really, it seemed that his books weren't as realistic as he used to think they were. Of course, a book is a script. It has a beginning, a middle and an end. Everything is pre-planned, already determined, made into a precise structure to make it easier to read. Life has been and always will be much messier. It was… disappointing he supposed. Things used to make sense in that kind of way. Now he couldn't even imagine comparing his life to a book. There didn't even seem to be a plot anymore. He had well and truly lost the reason he had to be fighting, and was just floundering in the dark, trying to find his way back onto the page again. He wished his life was more like a book. He wanted his loose ends tied up. He wanted a nice, definite resolution to his story. Not death, just… an end. He finally understood what Dean meant when he said he was tired. Sam was tired.

Harry really was a bright spark in that darkness. Both Sam and Dean naturally seemed to gravitate towards the wizard. It was obvious, even by looking at him that he had been through some rough situations, but he still fought. There was an endless positivity that seemed to surround him constantly, even when he looked exhausted or upset. It was strangely contradictory. Of course, Sam and Dean hadn't given up yet, but they were wearing thin. Harry kept them going, he pulled them along when they needed it and in return they were there for him when he seemed to need it. ('Seemed to' because he could be just as stubborn as Dean on his worst days; he would never come to them when he was hurting and would often go to extreme lengths to hide any problem from them). So, when the younger man asked Sam about his past, obviously hesitant but clearly interested all the same, he couldn't find it in himself to deny his friend despite how much he disliked talking about it.

"So your dad dragged the two of you around with him across the country to go and fight monsters?" Harry asked, quietly sympathetic.

"Yeah," Sam replied, "I think he felt kind of… insecure. He could have bought another house and raised us like a normal family, but there were still evil things out there. And the demon was targeting me. He probably thought that it would come back for me, and decided to hunt it down before it could. Then I guess he just lost sight of that and wanted revenge for mum. I get it, it's just… I wish we could have had a chance at a normal life. But I suppose there's really no leaving your past behind. It's always behind you, waiting to jump out and tear you to shreds."

"You're right. No matter how fast you run, it's always following a step behind." Harry said, his eyes distant.

Not really wanting to ask, but unable to stifle his burning curiosity, Sam couldn't help his next question. "What about your past? You've never mentioned any family…"

Harry smiled wryly. "I'm surprised it took you so long to ask. My parents died when I was a baby, and I was raised by my Aunt and Uncle. They were… not overly fond of me."

"Not fond of you as in…?" Sam began to ask, not sure if he really wanted an answer.

"They hated magic. Actually, they hated anything abnormal, including me. I mean, it wasn't that bad, and I was only there over the summer holidays until I was old enough to leave for good when I was seventeen. My cousin was alright the last time I saw him though." He added almost as an afterthought.

Sam frowned a little, getting the impression that there was a lot being left out of this story. He didn't say anything though, content to leave the issue be. He wasn't going to force Harry to talk about it if he didn't want to. "So what about the magic? We asked you when we first met and you wouldn't tell us."

"That's because you had a gun pointed at my head." Harry said, exasperated, "You two aren't exactly the best people to talk to about having magic. You didn't even believe me when I said I was born with it."

"Pretty much all the witches we've ever come across have got their power out of demon deals. You can't really blame us." Sam pointed out.

"I went to a magic school. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It's basically a giant castle in the countryside, hidden by muggle repelling spells."

"Hogwarts?" Sam laughed, "Dean's gonna have a field day with this when I tell him." He was already familiar with the term 'muggle', having been called one by Harry himself a few days after they had met.

"Yeah, I never really understood the name either. You get used to it after a while though I guess. It's the most amazing place I've ever been. It's still like a second home whenever I drop by."

"So what kind of subjects did you learn?" Sam asked, eager for more information now that Harry was answering his questions.

"Well, there are the basics like Defence Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, Herbology, Astronomy, History of Magic – that's taught by a ghost, by the way – and Care of Magical Creatures. Then there are the more obscure subjects like Divination, Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. I hated Potions and History of Magic, Divination is absolute rubbish and my teacher was an idiot, and I was good at Defence. That's about all I can say about them." Harry answered slowly, obviously thinking his answers through. Apparently there was a Statute of Secrecy forbidding magical people from talking about this stuff with muggles, but he had decided to divulge some details seeing as they already knew quite a bit about the supernatural, and weren't likely to spread word or start a witch hunt. (Not on  _these_  witches anyway).

"They all seem pretty self-explanatory. I take it the ghost teacher wasn't  _our_  kind of ghost? What else can you tell me about Hogwarts?" Sam asked, fishing for details.

"Rumour has it that he just woke up one morning and left his body behind, there was nothing strange about him except how extraordinarily boring he was. Some students kept pet owls to bring them letters in the Great Hall during breakfast, so there was an owlery in one of the towers. Oh, and there are four houses – Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin." Harry said, explaining how students were sorted and which houses valued certain traits.

"So were you a Gryffindor or a Hufflepuff?" Sam asked, wondering where he and Dean would be sorted. Dean would probably go into Gryffindor or Hufflepuff; he was brave, loyal  _and_ hardworking. He was pretty smart too, but he didn't really crave knowledge. Sam figured that he would be a Gryffindor or a Ravenclaw. After all the monsters he had faced, he considered himself to be courageous. He loved reading and learning new things too. Although trying to save the world all the time  _was_ pretty ambitious – maybe they had a little Slytherin in them too?

"Gryffindor," Harry replied smiling, "I've never really considered being in Hufflepuff before. Some people didn't really paint a favourable picture of it when I first met them. To be honest though, I don't think I would be hard-working enough to get in. I usually only make a lot of effort when it's a life or death situation. The sorting hat actually considered putting me in Slytherin; apparently I have a lot of their qualities. I had just heard a lot of bad things about them too though, so I asked not to be put there."

"I think Slytherin sounds great. Being ambitious and resourceful and cunning would be pretty useful," Sam said thoughtfully, "Although it would be bad if that ambition got out of hand and you tried to take over the world or something."

"Mmmm," Harry said, lost in thought. "I always thought that Slytherin's were bad, but thinking back, that was pretty stupid. I only spoke to a few of them and they weren't the nice ones. Actually come to think of it, the houses were all pretty segregated. We slept in the same dorms, ate together and went to the same classes, so we never really got the chance to interact with the other houses on a daily basis."

"I wish I went to a wizarding school," Sam sighed, "It sounds amazing. How many other schools were there?"

"I'm not sure. I know there are two more in Europe, and at least one in America, but the schools don't really interact all that often. I didn't even know there  _were_  other schools until my fourth year." Harry replied.

Sam was still bursting with questions, and was just opening his mouth to ask another when the door opened and Dean strolled into the library. Throwing a  _gigantic_  cherry pie onto the table, he plonked into a chair and looked expectantly between his brother and friend.

"Care to share? What were you girls chatting about?" He asked, somehow managing to shovel a quarter of the pie into his mouth.

"My entire life story up until now," Harry smiled, reaching over to steal some pie before Dean ate it all. It wasn't treacle tart, but it was still really good. "Sam, if you want to know more, I'll dig up a copy of Hogwarts: A History and lend it to you. I don't know why I'm bothering with the Statute of Secrecy with you two, you already know about me so it's kind of pointless. It doesn't mention the house elves or the room of requirement as far as I know, but it's still pretty informative." With that said, he stood and wandered out the door, carrying his pie with him.

"Hogwarts?  _House elves?_ " Dean mimed at his brother, brow creasing in confusion.

Shrugging, Sam left his brother to his bewilderment, snatching some pie and leaving after Harry. Some things just took too long to explain. Anyway, he was sure that the wizard would tell Dean eventually, once the nagging got too much for him to handle. For now he was going to do some research – he was interested to see how much information had been leaked to muggles over the centuries. Maybe he really would be in Ravenclaw if he went to Hogwarts. Blue was a nice colour too – much nicer than red or green or yellow. Smiling to himself, he whiled away the next few hours daydreaming about magic and castles and tall, graceful elves who lived in large houses. He really wished he had magic. Well, it seemed like he was overcoming his urge to be normal after all.


	8. Time

The more Harry thought about it, the more he realised that time really wasn't a quantifiable thing. Sure, cultures from all around the world had constructed their own calendars and methods of measuring it for thousands of years, and the length of a minute or an hour never changed. But the thing is; time is all about perception. It wasn't a pleasant thought.

The Battle of Hogwarts had taken place over ten years ago. The time since his school years had slipped by him, and he didn't know where it had all gone. Had he really been drifting for so long? The years between then and now seemed empty, measurable only by his time as an Auror. Back then he had thrown himself into his job in a mad fervour, trying to round up the remnants of Voldemort's followers, who had escaped and were still wreaking havoc on both wizards and muggles all across Britain. The Daily Prophet had labelled Harry a hero, a warrior, completely committed to bringing down the forces of evil and restoring peace to the Wizarding World once and for all. In truth, he had just wanted it to be over. He had spent most of his life running and fighting, with the shadow of the Dark Lord haunting his every step for years. He had – foolishly – thought that killing Voldemort would end the war permanently. Of course though, the Death Eaters that weren't already dead had to be recaptured and put on trial for their many crimes. He wasn't particularly scared of them, fear was something that he'd had to deal with on many occasions and he had become rather desensitized to it; and surely they couldn't be as dangerous as Lord Voldemort himself, especially scattered and leaderless as they were. But every one of them resented him for defeating their master, and it wasn't himself he was concerned about. All of his friends had been involved in the war, and most of them had played an instrumental part in the victory of the final battle. If the Death Eaters went after them and one of them got hurt, he didn't think he could live with himself. He had already lost so much to their hands.

He had thought that maybe, just maybe, he would finally be able to find some peace without the constant news of more deaths and the threat of being dragged into another war hanging over his head. So he had joined the Aurors of his own violation, preferring to fight on his own terms than eventually being forced into it  _again_ , and despite having seen more than enough death and bloodshed to last him the rest of his life. And he had quickly found out that he was  _good_  at it; even if he hadn't necessarily enjoyed it as much as he thought he would during his time at Hogwarts. He had been promoted to Head Auror after a remarkably short amount of time – just a few years – especially considering his age. But he had also realised, quite recently actually, that he hadn't done much else during those years. His job required a lot of dedication and responsibility, and before he knew it, he had pulled back from his friends and focused almost entirely on his work. Ron was also an Auror of course, a highly decorated one at that – but he had always managed to balance his home and work life well. It was just easy for him to separate the two, as naturally laid back as he was. Harry, on the other hand, found himself obsessing constantly on which enemy he was chasing at the time, even when he was supposed to be relaxing at home and winding down from his stressful job.

Now though, he was beginning to see some of the effects those years actually had on the people around him. His friends weren't quite what they were back then. They had all matured; aged, and it had happened so slowly, so gradually, that Harry hadn't even noticed it happening. The years had ingrained lines on their faces that simply weren't there before. They had grown into their features; Ron had gained quite a bit of bulk and was no longer as gangly as he had been as a teenager, making his height less noticeable, and his long nose was no longer nearly as prominent. The changes in Hermione had been less conspicuous, but still clear to all those who saw her on a regular basis. She had grown her hair out longer, the weight loosening her curls and making it a little less bushy, and her body had softened slightly as curves rounded out her form. Harry on the other hand, had barely changed at all. He had grown a couple of inches, but was still only just taller than Hermione, and much shorter than Ron. His hair was still as messy as ever, and his eyes just as bright and startlingly green. His jaw was slightly more defined, his body a little more toned, but he still looked very much the same as he did ten years ago. He was – not worried – but slightly concerned that he didn't seem to be aging as fast as his friends. They were in their early thirties (as was he), but he only looked to be in his early twenties. He couldn't be sure if it was his title as the Master of Death that had caused it, or perhaps good genetics (he had no family to compare himself with after all), or maybe just plain old good luck, so he had decided not to panic unless he still looked the same in another fifty years.

Still though, it was disconcerting to be presented with all of this evidence of the passage of time, but have nothing to show for it. A few scars, perhaps. Nicer clothes, yes (he had stopped wearing Dudley's rags at the first opportunity, and it had felt like freedom). But nothing significant had changed enough for him to fully comprehend how much time had passed. There was no defining moment to grab on to, no specific point in time for him to stand back and think, yes, that moment was important. He had been promoted, commended, given service medals and awards and honours. He had put countless Death Eaters behind bars, had an Order of Merlin, First Class, and yet he still felt that he had accomplished nothing since he had defeated Lord Voldemort all those years ago. And the most frustrating thing was that he didn't understand  _why_. He had done so much, seen so much, and it all felt like it had amounted to nothing. He felt empty, or maybe just incomplete; he wasn't sure. Was he missing something? Maybe he was just restless and bored. Even life as an Auror had seemed rather dull compared to some of the adventures he'd had at Hogwarts with his two best friends by his side. It had been terrifying, yes, and most of the time he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. But those years were the defining ones. They had really  _meant_ something. Full of life and adventure, fear and sorrow and joy, they were both the best and the worst times in his life.

Some of that uncertainty and frustration had cleared away though, when Harry had fallen in with the Winchesters. He loved Ron and Hermione of course, more than he had ever loved anyone, except perhaps his parents. Sometimes though, he couldn't really confide in them. That was something that hadn't changed much since they were children. They just wouldn't understand, though they would try to. Hermione would be warm and sympathetic, and would probably consult half a dozen books on psychological disorders and depression, despite Harry knowing that wasn't what he was suffering from. Ron would probably be anxious and confused, but would do his very best to distract and cheer his best friend up, even if that was all he could do. They really were great together.

It was different with Sam and Dean though. It wasn't really any better or any worse, but they just  _got it_. If it was bad they had seen it all before, and had been through it themselves more often than not. One look at Harry and they just  _knew_  straight away, no words needed. They didn't mention it, but it was comforting just to have somebody know and understand what he was going through for once, even if he didn't really understand it himself. And if he wasn't pressured to talk about it then that was even better.

Though he did notice little things they did for him when he was in one of his moods. Dean would coax him into the kitchen to experiment with food (cooking  _really_  wasn't the right word for it, although the food was edible more often than not), and Sam would distract him with well-directed questions about magic and those huge puppy dog eyes that he could never resist.  
And whenever Harry noticed the two of them becoming more withdrawn or broodier than usual, he would return the favour – baking pies and treacle tarts for Dean, and showing off some of his flashier magic to entertain Sam. They never needed words, not really, and Harry thought that he would quite like to spend as much of his time as possible with them. If the Winchester's understood anything, it was pain, and if they cared about anything, it was family.

Harry didn't quite know quite when it had happened, but that's what they were.

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is really short, but they get better and longer as the story goes along! Thanks for reading.  
> This story is also up on fanfiction.net if you're interested :)


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